


Perchance to Dream

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale learns to sleep, Dreams, Established Relationship, Living together in the South Downs, M/M, Sleep Paralysis, Unapologetic softness, memories of eden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23548771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: After accidentally falling asleep for the first time, Aziraphale is persuaded to try again under Crowley's close supervision.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 117





	Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Sleeping is hard. And I think we all need some soothing and some softness right now. 
> 
> Rated for language (just the one instance).

Crowley yawned. Again.

‘Really, my dear, that’s the third time in ten minutes. May I remind you that you were the one who suggested Roald Dahl?’

Crowley, who had closed his eyes the moment he’d settled his head in Aziraphale’s lap, waved in the vague direction of the book Aziraphale had been reading from and muttered, ‘Keep going, getting to the good bit.’

‘Yes, well,’ said Aziraphale, replacing his leather bookmark neatly between the pages, ‘The good bit can wait.’

Crowley made a sound that clearly indicated his displeasure at the idea of moving before turning his head so that his cheek rubbed against Aziraphale’s thigh. Placing the book down on the arm of the chair, Aziraphale began to stroke Crowley’s hair softly. It was likely to cause him to drift off to sleep all the faster but Aziraphale could not resist.

They had been living under the same roof for over a year but Aziraphale did not think there would ever come a day when he would not be filled with wonder at the trust Crowley placed in him every single time he fell asleep in his presence. Crowley being unconscious and pinning him down for an entire night, however, had lost its appeal early on.

Crowley’s hair was so soft, his expression so peaceful. Aziraphale knew that if he did not act now, he would give in and lose his chance of freedom for however long it took for Crowley to wake.

‘Dear one, I really think you’d be more comfortable in bed.’

‘Dissssagree.’

Aziraphale wondered whether Crowley was even aware of his sleepy sibilance.

‘Let me rephrase, my love. I believe _I_ would be more comfortable if you were in bed.’

Crowley scrunched up his face, looking adorably peeved, before reluctantly cracking open one eye.

‘Does my comfort mean nothing to you?’

‘It means a great deal,’ said Aziraphale, fingertips brushing the curve of Crowley’s ear, ‘Which is why I am suggesting that we relocate, unless you’d like me to miracle you into bed and risk a repeat of the last time you woke up in a different place to where you fell asleep.’

Crowley had both eyes open now and was looking up at him with the kind of wary hope that still cracked Aziraphale’s heart all the way through whenever he saw it.

‘We?’

Crowley had not once asked Aziraphale to stay with him until he was asleep but there was something about the way the word hung in the air between them as fragile as a wish.

‘If that’s alright with you,’ Aziraphale said and Crowley’s furtive smile was the perfect answer.

Their bedroom was the place in the house that felt most like Crowley, the only feature the giant bed they had both picked out together. The clutter Aziraphale had managed to spread throughout the rest of the cottage had failed to accumulate in this room leaving the floor, bedside tables and generously wide windowsill clean and clear.

Neither of them bothered with the palaver of un- and redressing. Two clicks and Crowley was in his preferred black silk and Aziraphale his butter soft cotton in its pale tartan pattern that Crowley had gifted to him for Christmas. Seconds later and they were both in bed, Crowley pressed against Aziraphale’s chest, held tight in the way Aziraphale knew he preferred.

‘Better?’

‘Mmm.’

There was every chance that Aziraphale had simply swapped one predicament for another, Crowley was not always willing to relinquish the comfort and warmth of his arms even when fast asleep, but it was certainly a more comfortable arrangement and, now that he thought about it, Aziraphale found that he too was weary. He had never developed the very human habit of sleeping, partly because long nights were the perfect time to read and partly because being caught asleep at his post by another angel had given Aziraphale such a gut wrenchingly nauseated feeling that he had preferred never to risk such a thing.

He did, however, on occasion, close his eyes and rest. He could, if conditions were right, slip into a state of meditative calm that he assumed to be every bit as restorative as true sleep. Aziraphale breathed in the scent of Crowley’s hair, felt his heart fill with warmth and light, and let his eyes close.

A jolt. Darkness. Awareness that something was wrong rising up slowly.

Aziraphale tried to open his eyes but realised with a lurch that his eyes were already open. Everything was black. He felt disorientated, strange, drunk almost but worse. Something had happened, was happening still but he was not sure what. He had the sense that time had passed though he was not sure how much and then, leapfrogging this realisation, was the terrifying certainty that he was alone.

Aziraphale tried to move, wanting to find Crowley in the pitch dark. When this did not work he tried to open his mouth and call out for him but he could not make a sound. Panic, extreme and excruciating, crashed down on him, his fear crystallising on one single word, one overwhelming need: _Crowley_.

Aziraphale was not sure how long he struggled to free himself, long enough to choke on his own breath, long enough to pray and plead and scream silently inside his own head. There was no discernible trigger but all at once he was pitched back into the world, all senses firing at once, a desperate, animalistic sound tearing the back of his throat.

‘Fuck! Angel, what the…?’

Crowley tried to sit up but Aziraphale was already grabbing for him, seizing his arm, trying to shield him.

‘Angel?’

Crowley was tense beneath Aziraphale’s fierce grip. Unable to discern the direction or nature of the threat, Aziraphale heard Crowley sniff the air.

‘What is it?’ Aziraphale asked, trusting Crowley to read more than he could in the darkness, ‘Demons?’

Crowley tasted the air again.

‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘There’s nothing there. I don’t understand. What happened?’

Crowley tried very gently to get Aziraphale to look at him but Aziraphale could not make himself look away from the doorway. He kept the window in his peripheral vision too, ensuring that the most obvious entryways for any attackers were within sight. It did not matter that the attack had already happened, that Aziraphale was still sick and shaking from it. His every instinct was screaming at him to find the source and to make sure he remained between it and Crowley.

‘Angel…’

‘There’s something here.’ Aziraphale began to peer into the corners of the room, checking and re-checking for monsters in the shadows. ‘Are you sure you can’t sense anything?’

Crowley grew still and alert once more and then, after a few seconds, he let out a decisive breath, raised a hand and clicked his fingers. Light, bright and sudden, flooded the room. No shadows. No monsters. No demons.

It made no sense. Aziraphale’s mind had been hijacked and there was no visible reason how or why. His chest felt tight, his skin prickling with goosebumps, his hand still locked around Crowley’s upper arm. Aziraphale forced himself to relinquish his grip, hating the red marks he had left on Crowley’s skin. Crowley, however, did not seem concerned for himself.

‘Want to check the rest of the house?’ he asked.

Aziraphale nodded though he was increasingly certain that whatever had held him in its grip was now gone. Still, they went through each room together, neither one of them admitting out loud that they did not want to lose sight of the other. The search revealed nothing out of the ordinary but Aziraphale was grateful for the time it bought him.

By the time they had checked the kitchen, the adrenaline had all but left Aziraphale’s system. Crowley offered to do a patrol of the outside perimeter but Aziraphale shook his head. There was nothing there, he knew it, Crowley knew it, there was no point in continuing with the pretence.

‘I’ll make some cocoa.’

Aziraphale listened to Crowley moving around the kitchen, doing everything properly, heating the milk in the saucepan, stirring it with a wooden spoon to keep it from burning. Aziraphale looked up as a mug was placed on the table in front of him. Crowley had even made one for himself.

Aziraphale breathed in the comforting smell of chocolate for a minute, took his first tentative sip of the too hot liquid and then placed his mug back down.

‘I couldn’t see,’ he said, staring down at his hands curved around the warm mug, ‘I couldn’t move. I thought you were…I thought you’d been taken from me.’

Crowley raised his own mug and pretended to drink, the clearest indication yet of how disturbing he found Aziraphale’s behaviour.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ said Aziraphale, forcing himself to adopt a light hearted tone even as the first prickles of shame start to sting, ‘We’re quite safe and here I am waking you for no good reason.’

Crowley lowered his mug. There was a slight frown line visible across his forehead, his eyes watchful and cautious. Aziraphale found it difficult to meet his gaze so he concentrated on his cocoa instead.

‘Angel,’ Crowley began, tentatively, ‘Do you think…is it possible that you were dreaming?’

Dreaming? Aziraphale puzzled over the word.

‘I was awake,’ Aziraphale said, definitively. It was unthinkable to conceive otherwise. ‘But I couldn’t move.’

Across the table Crowley did not look anywhere near as confused as Aziraphale felt. When he clicked his fingers and summoned his phone, Aziraphale felt a stab of hurt that Crowley had lost interest so quickly but after typing something ridiculously fast into the thing, Crowley turned the screen to face him.

Aziraphale squinted at the thing. In truth he could read the screen perfectly well but he liked to make the point that reading from such a bright, tiny rectangle was vastly inferior to looking something up in an actual book.

The article was from the NHS website (Crowley knew better than to show him any unverified nonsense from Wikipedia). In bold black letters at the top were the words: Sleep paralysis.

Aziraphale stared.

‘It can't be.’

It was an automatic response and an unnecessary one but Aziraphale wanted to hear the truth out loud. He wanted Crowley to put his phone away.

‘I don’t sleep. It must have been something else.’

Crowley gave a miniscule shrug and lowered his phone. They stayed in the kitchen for a long time, Crowley making sure his cocoa stayed warm while Aziraphale forgot to drink it. When dawn broke, Crowley suggested they went for a walk.

The sky above them was clear, the soft blue streaked through with a blush of pink. Birds, invisible to the eye, filled the air with an orchestra of song. Aziraphale loved this time of day, especially in spring. A fresh start, hope, optimism. In the face of nature’s calm serenity, the remaining shadows in Aziraphale’s mind shrank to almost nothing.

Crowley’s hand was warm in his and they had been walking in silence for some time when Crowley said, ‘I didn’t mean to sleep the first time.’

Aziraphale turned to look at him. Crowley was not wearing his glasses due to the early hour and the unlikelihood of coming across any of the neighbours. His gaze was directed towards a nearby tree where birds were flitting from branch to branch. Aziraphale got the distinct impression that Crowley was avoiding looking at him.

‘I’d been curious for a while,’ he continued, ‘Seemed odd, spending half of such a short life unconscious. Less so back then admittedly, no electricity for a start. I may have asked a few questions but it’s quite hard to come up with a plausible reason for asking how to do something that all humans manage to do from birth.’

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand and Crowley shot him a small, slightly rueful smile in return.

‘So,’ he said, looking away once more, ‘I got myself in a bit of trouble, got myself out of it too but I was hurt and needed to lay low for a while. Found a place to stay, protected it as best I could and then there was nothing to do but wait. Woke up three days later with no memory whatsoever of falling asleep.

‘Once I got over the shock, I realised I felt a lot better. Took some time for me to perfect the art but sleep and I have been good friends ever since.’

‘A bit too good,’ Aziraphale muttered, recalling some truly unpleasant stretches of time waiting for Crowley to emerge from hibernation. Crowley grinned.

‘I solemnly swear not to sleep for a hundred years ever again without your express permission.’

‘Which I will never give,’ said Aziraphale, lifting Crowley’s hand to kiss the back of it.

‘We’re getting off track here.’

Aziraphale was well aware of it but the truth was he was uncomfortable at the thought that he might have slipped accidentally into sleep. Surely after millennia of being fully conscious the act of sleeping would require more deliberation on his part. The idea of drifting into a completely different state of being unknowingly was somehow almost as disturbing as doing so due to celestial or demonic interference.

A blackbird began to belt out a stream of melodious notes. Aziraphale turned his face towards the sound. As beautiful as it was, part of him wished it was a nightingale.

If he had fallen asleep – _if_ – then it had been the waking that had proved problematic.

‘Has that ever happened to you?’ he asked, ‘Have you ever woken and not been able to move?’

Crowley gave a shudder that he instantly tried to suppress.

‘Not the way you just did, no, but the associated stories are very familiar. Been blamed for it personally more than once. Evil presence by the bed and all that.’

Aziraphale turned to look at him.

‘My dear, I didn’t for a moment think you were to blame.’

‘I know, angel.’ Crowley gave a sort of half shrug. ‘Just wanted to make sure you knew for sure though.’

They carried on walking, Aziraphale’s grip on Crowley’s hand a little tighter, his chest a little tighter too.

‘Do you really think I fell asleep?’ he asked after a few minutes.

‘Seems the most likely of all available options.’

‘I didn’t like it.’

This was a considerable understatement. Crowley hummed sympathetically.

‘It wasn’t the best start,’ he admitted, ‘Doubt it would happen next time.’ 

Aziraphale gave a half smile of acknowledgement but said nothing. There would not be a next time, he was certain of that. Clearly his corporation was not meant to sleep.

They had reached a small pond with a weeping willow leaning over it. A single mallard, sensing opportunity, began to paddle eagerly towards them. Crowley glared at it malevolently but the duck was unperturbed. Aziraphale was just raising his hand to perform the requisite miracle when Crowley beat him to it, half a loaf appearing in his hand.

What a gift to be able to watch Crowley feeding ducks – more had joined the initial pioneer – and know that he could bridge the small distance between them any time he wanted. As if reading his thoughts, Crowley looked over, offered him the bread. As Aziraphale began breaking off small pieces and casting them out into the water, Crowley moved close enough to bump their hips together.

‘I could teach you,’ he said.

‘Teach me what?’ Aziraphale asked, absorbed in his task, ‘I’ll have you know I’ve been feeding ducks a lot longer than you have.’

‘Forget the ducks,’ said Crowley, ‘I’m talking about sleep. I could teach you how to, you know, do it.’

Aziraphale threw a piece of bread and accidentally hit a duck in the face. It would be hard to give up lying in bed with Crowley and if there was a chance he might end up enjoying any time he spent asleep, perhaps there was some merit to the idea.

‘If I wake up again and can’t move…’

‘Then we stop and I’ll never ask you to try ever again,’ said Crowley, ‘Okay, angel? I promise.’ 

Keen for the experiment to begin, Crowley attempted to persuade through the giving of gifts. Aziraphale found three more pairs of pyjamas in the wardrobe, a pair of tartan slippers by the bed and a fluffy dressing gown gift wrapped on his favourite chair. He traced the ornately embroidered A on his dressing gown, said thank you and then hung it up on the back of the bedroom door. 

He was not ready.

Memories of how it had felt to be trapped in his own body, terrified and helpless, rose in him at odd moments despite Aziraphale’s concerted effort to immerse himself in literature that spoke of the comfort and joy of dreams. Any mention of nightmares was banished to a high shelf.

Crowley, whether in solidarity or in an attempt to persuade Aziraphale to face his fears, took to shunning sleep too. He poured himself over the sofa instead, limbs everywhere, eyes closed but never quite loosening his grip on consciousness.

Aziraphale had a book propped in his lap, the lamp beside him angled just so. It was somewhere past three, the darkness beyond the window absolute on this moonless night. Crowley had been playing a game on his phone for the last few hours but had finally abandoned it and was now lying virtually upside down, looking about as bored as Aziraphale had ever seen him.

‘Go to bed,’ said Aziraphale.

‘No.’

‘You look tired.’

‘M’fine.’

Aziraphale resolved to continue reading and leave Crowley be but after a minute he found his gaze returning to the silent but very evidently attention seeking demon across the room.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Crowley’s inverted shrug threatened to pitch him onto the floor. He sat up as Aziraphale made his way over, immediately draping his legs over Aziraphale’s lap the moment it was an option.

‘If this is what you wanted you could have asked, my dear,’ said Aziraphale, fondly.

Crowley did not respond but he did look rather more satisfied. Aziraphale studied the angles of his beautiful face, his hand on Crowley’s knee. There was a question he wanted to ask, one that had been on the tip of his tongue for days.

‘Crowley?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Do you ever dream of me?’

Crowley looked at him, expression slightly surprised. 

‘Of course I do.’

‘Often?’

A hint of teeth in Crowley’s smile now.

‘What’s this about, angel? Afraid you’ll miss me if you fall asleep?’

‘Yes.’

Crowley blinked, smile vanishing.

‘Angel…’

Aziraphale did not think he would ever tire of rendering Crowley speechless. He was not sure how to explain how precious watching Crowley sleep was to him. How could he put in words how much he would miss Crowley if he was elsewhere, even if it were only temporary and waking would return them to each other?

Crowley was staring up at him. Aziraphale had to say something, anything.

‘If I knew I would dream of you, I think it would be easier.’

Crowley’s expression softened into something that Aziraphale found hard to bear.

‘I know there are no guarantees,’ Aziraphale said, hastily, though perhaps he had not known that until reading it in Crowley’s eyes, ‘I suppose I’m asking if there’s a way to make pleasant dreams more likely.’

‘Fall in love with an angel. Worked for me.’

Warmth, pure as sunlight, bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest. He had the love part covered, at least, though he failed to see how any dream could match the present. Crowley, however, had started sleeping a very long time ago.

‘You dream of me.’

‘This,’ Crowley said, with a slight hiss, ‘Has been established.’

‘When?’ Aziraphale asked, softly, ‘When did you start?’

Crowley took a long time to answer and when he did he kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

‘It took a while,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, ‘I’d had dreams but I was almost always alone. Didn’t like that. Spent enough time on my own. I was going to give up on the whole thing when it happened. I went to sleep in my bed in Athens and then there you were in Egypt, standing ankle deep in the Nile, all in white. You were watching the sunset and you were just as beautiful as I remembered.’

Aziraphale felt held by the intensity of Crowley’s recollection, bathed in light he had never seen, soothed by water he had never touched. Whenever Aziraphale suspected he might have found the edges and limits of Crowley’s love, a moment like this would come along to remind him of all he had left to discover.

‘Would have been enough just to watch you,’ Crowley continued, quieter still, ‘But then you turned to look at me. You smiled. And I woke.

‘I didn’t dream about you again for months but that was it for me. Once I knew it was possible, I wasn’t going to stop trying.’

‘Oh Crowley.’

Crowley grimaced.

‘Don’t.’

Aziraphale stroked his leg, attempting to soothe. He probably should have waited a bit longer before saying, ‘It really is terribly romantic.’

Crowley groaned and flung an arm dramatically over his eyes but did not refute the claim.

Aziraphale began to trace a series of ancient, forgotten symbols on the fabric of Crowley’s dark jeans, his thoughts taking him back to when his feelings for Crowley were unnameable, contradictory, when catching sight of him would bring delight and crushing confusion in equal measure. Would it have been consoling to have had the freedom to explore his feelings in dreams? Or would failing to police his own thoughts have merely been another way to torture himself?

‘I might not have wanted to wake up,’ Aziraphale admitted aloud.

Crowley lifted his arm slowly, allowing Aziraphale to see his face once more. His eyes were very yellow, his whole face very still. Aziraphale’s heart, full as it was, began to tremble. How often it seemed to break open under the gaze of those eyes, how carefully, how gently Crowley would then work to repair it.

‘I imagine you didn’t always want to,’ Aziraphale said, ‘I hurt you, in the real world.’

‘Not true,’ said Crowley.

Aziraphale looked away, remembering. It had almost always been him who had put an end to their meetings, sometimes with no more than a subtle clearing of the throat, other times with a reason that he was needed elsewhere, but on too many occasions all it had taken was a pointed reminder of what Crowley was for the demon to make his own excuses and disappear. Had it been strictly necessary to spell it out so very often? They’d both known the reasons and the risks, and they’d both gravitated towards each other regardless. How tightly Aziraphale had held to his sense of righteousness, a shield between him and the truth. No wonder Crowley sought refuge in dreams where Aziraphale did not speak.

‘Angel.’ Crowley was sitting up, tucking his legs beneath him so he could lean forwards, place a hand on Aziraphale’s face, guide him back. ‘Look at me.’

Aziraphale tried to blink away the sudden tears that were burning his eyes.

‘Do you honestly believe that I could ever prefer a dream version to the real you?’

Crowley’s other hand gripped Aziraphale’s waistcoat hard, giving him a little shake. His expression was a complicated mix of fond exasperation and genuine heartbreak.

‘How could you think that, angel? How could you think that I don’t…that I could ever…?’

Aziraphale leaned into the soothing warmth of Crowley’s palm, his own hand rising to cover the one still grasping his waistcoat. Aziraphale was very familiar with confessions of love by now, the faltering, awkward kind when their reception was still unknown, the staggeringly fluent kind as Crowley let go of words he had held tight to his chest for whole lifetimes, and the choking, fragile kind, the barely articulated, desperate kind that Aziraphale somehow found most touching of all.

‘Angel…’

Crowley pressed their foreheads together gently and Aziraphale understood. 

‘I know,' he said. 

‘Do you?’

‘I do.’

Crowley released a long, slow breath and Aziraphale was seized by the sudden need to be closer, to be touching along the entire length of their bodies.

‘Crowley darling, let’s go to bed.’

A month went by. Then two.

Crowley told him it was easy, that soon he would be able to simply close his eyes and drift off.

‘You did it once, you can do it again.’

But how? The first time had been entirely accidental. Aziraphale decided he needed to commit to the process, prove he was serious.

He wore the pyjamas Crowley had given him. He took relaxing baths. He read books on good sleep habits and put them into practice, spritzing everything with liberal quantities of lavender and banning Crowley from bringing his phone anywhere near the bedroom.

And still, sleep eluded him.

‘But how do you do it?’ he asked Crowley over and over again, Crowley’s explanations becoming shorter and shorter until he would just shrug.

‘Just do, angel. Closing your eyes would be a good start.’

‘I’ve had my eyes closed for the last hour.’

‘Mouth too.’

‘It can’t be that simple.’

‘It is.’

Aziraphale tried but his mind remained stubbornly alert.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing you’ve forgotten to tell me? Crowley?’

Crowley’s demonstrations of how it was done were becoming increasingly hard to appreciate.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to poke him hard in the ribs and tried, once again, to count backwards from one hundred. Slowly. Visualise the numbers. Or should he be picturing sheep? One expert had recommended clouds. Nothing living, don’t give the mind a reason to worry about lost livestock. Aziraphale let out an irritated sigh. Was that the eighty third sheep or the eighty fourth? Did he need to start again?

Beside him, presumably undisturbed by any imaginary farmyard antics, Crowley slept on.

It was approaching midday the next day and Aziraphale was watching Crowley through the window as he prowled around their garden, glaring at the foxgloves which had started to lean and brandishing his secateurs threateningly at the climbing roses. The ox-eye daisies, which presumably felt they were next in line for scrutiny, had already started to tremble.

Partly to spare the rest of the plants but mostly because it was sunny and almost lunchtime, Aziraphale decided that it was the perfect time for an impromptu picnic. It did not take long to find a blanket. The fridge was, as always, well stocked. Aziraphale placed a selection of cheeses, crackers, and the jar of fig chutney he had picked up at the farmer’s market into a basket. He fussed over fruit, considering the best combination, weighing up the crunch of an apple versus the sweetness of grapes. More items entered the basket than he could possibly eat but perhaps Crowley would assist him, he was often more amenable to the idea of eating when meals were al fresco.

Aziraphale was humming as he emerged from the kitchen into the garden, the basket over one arm, blanket folded neatly on top.

‘I swear by every infernal…’

‘Crowley?’

Crowley whirled around, side stepping so that he was blocking Aziraphale’s view of the alliums he had just been menacing.

‘Sorry to disturb you, my dear,’ said Aziraphale, casting around for a suitable place on the lawn to spread the blanket and giving Crowley time to rearrange his expression into something less murderous, ‘I thought we might have lunch out here?’

At his question, Crowley glowered at the trembling flowers in the border to his right for a moment and then lifted his chin, the storm entirely lifted from his expression.

‘Sounds good,’ he said, ‘Not there though.’

Aziraphale allowed himself to be led through the garden, making appreciative noises as Crowley pointed out plants that had not done him the dishonour of disappointing him.

Once the blanket was spread beneath the pear tree, once the cheese was eaten, once the first bottle of wine was emptied, and then the second…

‘It’s all quite simple really,’ Aziraphale heard himself say though he had absolutely no recollection of his original point.

Aziraphale did not remember lying down either but there he was, reclining on a small mountain of cushions Crowley had summoned into being, and staring up at the gentle rustling leaves above them while Crowley gently twisted his curls around his fingers. The scent of honeysuckle was making the air sweet. Aziraphale breathed it in feeling heavier with each exhale. He felt as if he were sinking into the cushions around him as a deep sense of peace surrounded him. Could Crowley feel it too?

‘Sssh,’ was Crowley’s response, ‘Listen to the bees.’

Aziraphale did as he was told, tuning into the buzzing of insects all around them. Why did bees buzz? Was it a form of communication like the purring of a cat? Or an accidental by-product of their frantic lives? Crowley might know. He’d have some opinion anyway. Aziraphale would just have to open his mouth, form the words and ask him. In a minute, no rush...

Eden had not changed.

Bright colours. Brand new life. Everything revelling in its creation. Aziraphale turned in a circle on the spot, breathing it all in. He remembered it and Eden remembered him, creeping tendrils reaching for him, bursting into flower at his touch. It was all as it was. 

Adam and Eve were out there somewhere. He was meant to be keeping watch on them, on the garden, on all of it. Aziraphale strained his ears for any sound of them but it was not their voices he wanted to hear.

He was flying, his wings lifting him over the canopy with ease. Aziraphale scanned the garden below him, hoping for a flash of fiery red, but there was only green as far as the eye could see. At last he came to the wall, the great boundary enclosing paradise. Somewhere along it there were other angels, other guardians, but Aziraphale knew they would not come near him. He knew he was safe.

Aziraphale landed softly, bare feet on warm stone. There was something in his hand. He looked down, expecting to see a sword, but his fingers are wrapped around a feather instead, long and black and as familiar as his own.

‘Crowley?’

The only answer was the persistent calls of the birds, the stridulation of the insect, the almost imperceptible whisper of each tree reaching out, breathing, growing.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, listening. He had not realised how much he had missed it.

There was no warning, no change in the soundscape or the air pressure. One moment he was alone and the next he opened his eyes to find Crowley sitting a few metres away, supporting his weight on his hands as he leaned back, long legs dangling over the wall.

‘Crowley!’

Crowley tilted his head back, looking surprised and a little pleased. His hair, wild and wind tangled, was a temptation in and of itself.

‘You remember my name,’ he said.

‘Of course I do!’

Aziraphale was suddenly overcome by joy. Crowley, here. Crowley, right where it began for them.

Memories flooded him, memories of all that would come to pass and all they would grow to be. Every mistake, every struggle, every sacrifice had brought them to a future they never could have predicted. Unable to hold it all in, Aziraphale began to laugh. Crowley had always been so very good at making him laugh.

‘Um…’ Crowley was looking at Aziraphale in some concern. ‘What’s funny?’

Crowley glanced around for the source of Aziraphale's amusement but did not attempt to evade what was coming. He continued sitting on the wall, well within striking distance for a Principality who had sworn to defend Eden from sin. Aziraphale’s laughter died away, something fiercer and brighter taking its place.

‘May I sit with you?’

Crowley blinked and then gave a single nod.

Aziraphale felt the brush of wing on wing as he sat down. They were very close together, Crowley’s hand in the space between them. He was sitting up straighter now, looking out at the sand dunes that stretch on and on all the way to the horizon.

‘How far do you think they go?’ Crowley asked.

Aziraphale laid his hand gently on Crowley’s, unable to resist.

‘On and on forever,’ said Aziraphale, thinking of oceans and cities yet to be, thinking of bookshops and cottages with gardens of their own, thinking of love. Forever and ever, amen. 

Colours. Yellow, orange, red cool to black. Aziraphale's senses were telling him too little and then too much. He resisted but it was no use. His eyes opened.

He was under the pear tree in their cottage garden, lying on the picnic blanket, his head on a cushion. Crowley was propped up on one elbow, head in his hand, watching him.

‘Welcome back.'

Aziraphale raised a hand, passed it over his face. He felt strange. Where had he been?

‘Did I sleep?’

‘Yep.’

Aziraphale's mind was catching up with the feedback from his corporation now. He had slept. He had woken. He had _dreamed_.

‘How long was I…?’

‘Only about an hour or so.’

An hour? It had felt like nothing, it had felt like days.

‘You okay?’

Crowley was watching him closely. Aziraphale probed his mind and emotions a little more before answering.

‘Yes, I believe I am.’

It made no sense though. After all the nights he had spent doing everything right, following all the advice, why would his mind choose a sunny afternoon in the garden to shut down?

‘You were relaxed,’ said Crowley, who did not seem to find this mysterious in the slightest, ‘It happens.’

Aziraphale sat up. His mind was full of images, questions, and the memory of long, red hair and night black wings. It was a little jarring to look over at Crowley and see his hair so short, his clothes so tight, his wings tucked away on another plane on existence.

‘I was in Eden. You were there too.’

‘Oh?’

Crowley was beginning to look a little wary but Aziraphale pressed on.

‘It wasn’t a memory, it was different.’

‘Different but good?’ Crowley asked.

Aziraphale reached out to touch his hair. Long or short, it was always gorgeous. 

‘Different but good,’ he confirmed.

Aziraphale caught a glimpse of a smile before Crowley leaned closer to kiss his cheek. Another blessing. Just then an enormous bee, heavily laden with bright orange pollen, flew by, reminding Aziraphale of his lost train of thought.

‘It’s just how they talk,’ said Crowley, in response to Aziraphale's query, ‘Buzz buzz, flowers are over there, boys.’

‘Is that what they’re saying?’

‘How the Heaven should I know?’

‘Well, now, how can I believe that they’re talking at all? It’s probably just, I don’t know, what’s the insect equivalent of engine noise?’

The bickering continued as they packed up the picnic things and made their way back to the cottage, Crowley holding the basket, Aziraphale the blanket so that they both had a hand free to find each other’s.

Aziraphale was already thinking of tea and biscuits. When they got inside he would ask Crowley to put some music on – nothing too modern, nothing too loud. They would talk, laugh and then Aziraphale would read until Crowley started to yawn.

Up they would go to bed, together. Aziraphale would focus on the sleep-slow breathing of the demon beside him. He would measure time in heartbeats, watch the moon draw patterns on their bedroom wall as he held tight to the feeling of being safe, being known, being loved. If he fell asleep, so be it. And if he stayed awake, all would be well.

Dreaming or awake, Crowley was with him. And ever would be. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr @marbledwings.


End file.
